


Impulse

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Consensual, Fingerfucking, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:17:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE: Ratchet and Drift get it on. Really, that's all there is to this. Completely shameless PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impulse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> Written for homosindisguise! <3
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Ratchet is not a spur-of-the-moment kind of Autobot. He's got plenty of crewmates who are — Rodimus and Skids and Whirl and countless others — but not Ratchet. He doesn't act on impulse, unless it's to save the life of a comrade, and even then that stems from millions of years of experience of being a medic, the bulk of that time concurrent with an endless war. Ultimately, he _knows_ what he's doing.

That approach has been completely thrown for a loop though, now that Drift is in the equation. Irreparably so.

And now the third-in-command of the _Lost Light_ is stretched out on a medical slab, propped up on his elbows with his thighs spread and _damn it_ Ratchet feels a horrible spontaneity start to creep into his processor, and he really can't decide if he likes it or not.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare, or…?" Drift's grinning, and it's that kind of slag-eating grin that Ratchet can't help but grumpily fall for. "You can touch me, you know. I won't bite."

 _That_ gets Ratchet's engine revving, and swiftly the medic lessens the space between them, optics never leaving that smirking face. "This is neither the time nor place, Drift."

A sultry purr emanates from somewhere in Drift's body; the ex-Decepticon reclines further. "Except that's not true, and you know it." His optics darken slightly — his grin widens. "Surrender to _impulse_. You know you want to."

 _Dammit_.

Ratchet knows that by now he should be accustomed to this game Drift insists on playing — the _appear in an inappropriate place at an inopportune time and titillate Ratchet until he gives in_ game — but it never ceases to take him by surprise. Secretly, it delights the medic, but that's a detail he'd rather not divulge.

The distance between them is negated completely; Ratchet feels the edge of the medical slab bump against his legs, and instantly Drift wraps his thighs tight around the medic's waist. "Your acerbic façade is endearing, Ratchet. You've constructed quite the misleading aura."

"Oh, shut _up_." And with those words, Ratchet surges forward, crushing his lips against those of the supine third-in-command, hands braced on either side of that slim, lithe frame. Drift arches into the contact, returning the kiss in earnest, grinding himself against the bulkier body of Ratchet, bringing the medic even closer with those strong legs. Plating creaks and scuffs and _damn_ when did Drift suddenly start running _so hot_?

Ratchet breaks the kiss, and his hands move over flat chest armor, down a thin waist, coming to rest on Drift's thighs, and he lifts them up, up — until Drift's aft is resting against Ratchet's own chest, and the ex-Decepticon's ankles are hiked up onto the medic's shoulders. A visible shiver ripples its way down Drift's frame, and _that_ is more than a little stimulating. "Open up."

Before Ratchet has even finished his request, the white interface paneling snaps aside. Drift rolls his hips and his aft scrapes along the medic's chest plating, his port already seeping lubricant. Ratchet can smell the ex-Decepticon's arousal; he seizes Drift's thighs, lifts those hips just a _bit higher_ , and soon Ratchet's _tasting_ that arousal too.

Drift _writhes_.

The medic flicks his glossa over the rim of the third-in-command's port, then thrusts it inside. Walls clench and tighten around him, and Drift's legs tense for a moment — and then his hips buck upward, and Ratchets gets a mouthful of that hot, wet port. Another plunge of his glossa, and Drift grunts contentedly beneath him, fans whirring louder and louder.

Drift's vocal. It's not surprising in the least, and now the ex-Decepticon is speaking, alternating between unabashed moans and encouragements of " _Yes, Ratchet, please!_ " Ratchet doesn't mind it — in fact, he rather likes it — and Drift's words only push him further. The chief medical officer licks and nips and sucks, seeking out sensory nodes that make the other Autobot twitch and spasm beneath him in just the most _perfect_ of ways; he can taste the warm, sticky lubricant smeared on his lips, and a moment later, the third-in-command's spike is jutting at attention.

With a final swipe of his glossa, Ratchet draws back, lowering Drift until his thighs are hugging the medic's waist. Drift is panting ex-vent after ex-vent, and his optics are shuttered, head thrown back and neck cables exposed. He knows _exactly_ what kind of display he's putting on, and as much as Ratchet wants to ravish that sensitive throat, he has other matters he wants to attend to first.

Drift fails to stifle a cry as his spike is enveloped by Ratchet's mouth — and he fails again, when the medic thrusts three digits deep into his port. They slide in and out, curling against inner circuitry and striking _all the right places_ ; all the while, Ratchet has his lips clamped around Drift's spike, glossa working against the underside, and Drift _bucks_ , driving himself deep into the medic's throat.

The result is a muffled cough and sputter. Drift looks like he's about to apologize, but Ratchet effectively silences him by taking in the entire length of the spike and tightening the tubing of his throat around it. Ratchet is rewarded with a deliciously low moan — it's far lower than Drift's usual vocal range — and he works himself up and down the length of the shaft, talented fingers simultaneously thrusting _in and out_ of the slick, dripping port.

Drift gasps and his fans switch on a step higher — his thighs start to tremble and his hips are jerking upward, back arching off the medical slab. Ratchet knows he's _close_ , and he focuses his efforts with a renewed fervor, glossa swiping over the head of the spike, digits plunging in and dragging out of the port, and _finally_ —

Drift's overloads are never quiet, and this one has him howling with release, Ratchet doing his very best to ignore the shout of _Primus, yes!_ that leaves Drift's vocalizer. Thighs tighten around the medic's waist — internal components of the ex-Decepticon's port clamp down over his fingers — transfluid jets from his spike and Ratchet is only able to partially dodge it.

The space between them is hot and wet and smells of arousal.

Gradually Ratchet disentangles himself from Drift's legs, moving up the supine body of the third-in-command until he's reached that inviting neck. Drift's still shuddering beneath him, aftershocks from his overload quaking within his frame. For a blessed moment, he's speechless, basking in a blissful afterglow, and Ratchet nuzzles neck cables and then an audial and finally, their lips meet in a lazy, languid kiss.

Drift pulls away, optics hooded and a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Do you — do you see what happens, Ratchet, when you surrender to impulse?"

The chief medical officer huffs, but his usually-prickly façade has long since fallen away. The sated expression on Drift's face is just too damn beautiful, and Ratchet murmurs, voice low, "You're right, I should do it more often. Like so: round two begins _now_."

The look of delight in Drift's optics is one that Ratchet will savor for a long, _long_ time.

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :B


End file.
